Dear Ethel,
I never thought I’d be writing you this. I’ve been quarantined with my lady and, needless to say, the conversation has fallen adrift. We seem to have ensnared ourselves in an effervescent cycle of…well…nonstop smashage. Ethel, I’m exhausted. My days and nights are consumed with performance. Whatever happened to a jigsaw puzzle? I miss the days of simple, pious pleasures. What do I do, Ethel?
Give me anything,
Tired Tucker
Tired Tucker,
Ah, I remember these days well. Quite the young vixen, was I! When I lived through the Spanish Flu, it became nearly impossible to dissuade the unwavering desires of my lover. I do not jest, we were in the sack at least 17 times in a day…and all before afternoon tea! It’s a miracle I’m still alive. Lucky you are to have me, for when I consulted my psychic at the time, she merely suggested I tell him I’d had enough! I know, what rubbish advice! My solution — which, trust me, is tried and true — is quite obvious. You must hide. I don’t care where, I don’t care how. Fasten yourself behind doorways, under mattresses, even in the cupboard! I will warn you, however, this method did once — and only once — fail me. There I was, stuffed between a rock and a hard place (literally, I was in the yard nestled betwixt a boulder and an adirondack chair). My lover, may he rest, mistook my little “jig” to be foreplay! Imagine my surprise when after tirelessly searching for me about the house for 13 hours (make sure to pack snacks), my lover’s pulsating desire did not cease! My lover, wearing nothing but a toe ring (I’ll let you guess where) found me and was still ready for more! He thought me a tease! Listen, Tucker, I may be most things, but a tease is certainly not one of them. At that point, I had no choice but to leave him and banish him to live in the basement until the flu was over. Well, my lamb, be well, be merry and be effervescently flaccid.
I live to serve,
Ethel
